All 'er Nothin'
by AnneNevilleReviews
Summary: When Kurt comes home to visit his father, he encounters old friends-and an ex-boyfriend with a creepy obsession. As Blaine plans the "perfect proposal," his incessant pressure forces the Glee Club, graduates, and their parents to reevaluate their relationships and their values. NOT KLAINE FRIENDLY. Kurt/Adam, Mercedes/Mike, Sam/Brittany, etc.
1. Coffee Date

_It cain't be "in between"  
It cain't be "now and then"  
No half and half romance will do!_

The test results were taking a long time. Too long, Kurt feared. If the results were good, he reasoned, they should have heard already. He did his best to distract himself. He tried to spend time with his friends—those who had supported him through his father's first health crisis, that is. People like Mercedes.

Somehow, however, Blaine was always there, too. He'd already endured two excruciating coffee dates, and now Mercedes and Mike (_thank goodness for them_) were running interference as Kurt compulsively stacked his sugar packets. All the time, Kurt kept a smile plastered on his face, hoping it didn't look too fake. Whenever he looked up into Blaine's pleading eyes, he saw a black hole. After a few months with Adam, Kurt understood what lay behind that expression: neediness; desperation; self-love. And it made him nervous.

He didn't think he could take anymore of that look. Although Kurt knew he was being manipulated, he still felt his gut wrench. It was hard to eat, and he didn't know whether his loss of appetite was fear for his father, or an ever-growing anxiety about Blaine. Blaine and his obsession, his insistence that they were together, his uncanny knack for showing up on the Hudson-Hummel doorstep or at the Lima Bean whenever Kurt was there.

At least he hadn't been serenaded yet. Kurt could only assume that somewhere, deep down, Blaine had a scrap of decency. But that was debatable. Blaine had cheated. He'd diminished Kurt's talents. He'd overshadowed him at every turn, even when he didn't have to. He'd cut Kurt down to size—and now, Kurt was beginning to wonder whether Blaine had been sabotaging him on purpose.

It's hard to let go when you're always number two—when you're always hearing that _this is the best you'll ever do_.

Even now, as they sat at the Lima Bean, Kurt wondered: What's going on in Blaine's head? What's behind that smile when he says the things he says?

"So, Kurt, I heard that you're _getting by_ at NYADA," Blaine commented.

"Oh?" He tried to keep his voice neutral.

"Yeah, Rachel said."

"Mmm. Rachel said. I see."

"Don't worry, sweetie." Blaine patted Kurt's hand, then grasped his fingers tightly. Kurt could no longer focus on rearranging his sugar packets. "Once I get to New York, you'll be fine," Blaine continued, "We'll get you where you deserve to be."

_Swaying in the background of the Adam's Apples, he means_, Kurt thought. His hand tensed, and for a moment he felt ashamed. Then, he noticed that Mercedes was giving Blaine the snake eye.

"Excuse me?" she said, her voice carrying just a little more than necessary. "Did I miss something? The part where you got into NYADA? Or the part where Kurt needs _you_ to be able to sing and dance and wow an audience. I have two words for you: 'Celine Dion.'"

Blaine opened his mouth to protest, but he had no chance to respond.

Mike was smiling at Mercedes. "Remember the look on Mr. Schue's face when he saw Kurt's medley on YouTube?" he said. "I never understood why he wouldn't give Kurt a solo in competition, especially after that . . ."

Blaine's grip on Kurt's hand tightened. He didn't like it when the New Directions members talked about things that happened before his time. But he also couldn't let Mercedes's comment pass.

"Yeah, Kurt has always tried to excel in everything _French_ . . ." he threw in, giving Kurt a significant look. "He just needs more practice."

Kurt squirmed, the other graduates gaped, and then they all pretended they hadn't understood Blaine's implication. Mercedes cleared her throat.

"Well," she said, "we've already hashed this out—and Mike, don't you _dare_ make some hack hash-brown joke at me—Schue is no Sue. He always takes the safe road."

Kurt and Mike exchanged glances. There was a hard edge to her voice. Both young men knew that Mercedes was remembering all the solos she missed out on, as well as the _West Side Story_ debacle. Suddenly—and irrationally, Kurt told himself—angry, he pulled his hand out of Blaine's clammy grasp.

Mike looked like he was going to respond to Mercedes's imprecation about Mr. Schuester, but he never had the chance.

"Not this year," Blaine blurted out. "He's not taking the safe road this year."

Everyone at the table turned to look at him.

"Oh? Pray tell, Blaine." Mercedes's voice was soft.

"No, no, let me guess," Mike interjected with a grin. "Tina and Artie are doing a duet?"

"No." Blaine made the idea sound like the height of lunacy.

"Ah. Then you mean that Joe's finally going to perform 'Jolene' on a guitar while Jake, Sugar, and Brittany do an interpretive dance?"

"No, of course not! That would be—"

"Different?" Mercedes raised an eyebrow.

"_Weird_ and _stupid_ and—and—and I haven't even _seen_ Joe or Sugar for weeks. Or . . . well, Brittany for that matter." Blaine's forehead wrinkled. He hadn't noticed they were gone until Mike mentioned them.

Kurt began arranging his sugar packets in a different formation. A half-moon. Was it waxing, or waning?

"Perhaps you should be out looking for them," Kurt suggested.

"No, honey, you know I've gotta to be here for you."

As far as Kurt could tell, Blaine was at the Lima Bean for Blaine, not for him. He felt a foot brush against his calf and hoped it was Mike accidentally jiggling his leg again.

"So," Kurt pressed on, "What's the daring plan, Blaine? A Ryder-Jake duet with Unique throwing in a few power notes at the end?"

"Um . . ."

"I'll take that as a yes," Mercedes snorted. "Way to use last year's Nationals MVP."

Kurt looked up. Why could there be a boy-boy duet now, and not when _he_ was in New Directions? Well, that was one Regionals number accounted for . . .

Mike looked thoughtful. "Marley has a sweet voice. Is she getting the traditional Rachel-solo?"

"_No._" For a moment, Blaine sounded like he was scoffing, but he modulated his voice and continued. "I'm singing _with_ her—another duet. That's definitely breaking the mould."

Kurt felt a bit sick to his stomach. "I'm surprised they didn't just give it to you, Blaine."

When Kurt's ex didn't respond, the three graduates turned to stare at him.

"Oh _hell_ to the no!" Mercedes finally said. "Mr. Schue _did_ just give it to you, didn't he?"

Blaine nodded.

Kurt noticed his coffee was going cold, so he started to empty the sugar packets into the cup one at a time. Why had he agreed to come to the Lima Bean? He hated the place—especially after having worked there over the summer. Plus, it reminded him of Sebastian. It made him feel trapped.

"Kurt."

He looked up at Blaine.

"That's enough sugar, don't you think? You know how you get . . ."

"Yes, Blaine, I _know_ how I get." He tried to put a hard edge into his voice. "Blaine, how did Marley get that duet?"

"Well, you know, I didn't think it was fair for me to be singing all the numbers, so . . ."

"So . . . "

"So—" Mercedes butted in, "—you went to Mr. Schue and convinced him to put Marley in."

"Yeah, well, you know, Glee Club is all about equal representation."

"Everyone," Kurt murmured, "Should have their chance to shine."

Blaine nodded enthusiastically.

Mike looked thoughtful. "So, that leaves the group number. You're singing lead?"

"No." Blaine beamed. "Sam and I decided to split it."

"Oh sweet merciful Lord, the boys are taking over. _Again_." Mercedes threw down her plastic fork. "Mike—finish this cheesecake, I've lost my appetite."

Kurt looked at the sugar crystals dissolving in his cup and realized that he'd lost his, too. All he'd wanted was to wait out these interminable hours with his friends—with the people who made him feel safe. Instead, he was sitting with his ex-boyfriend.

Who cheated on him.

Who took every opportunity to outshine him.

Who thought that he was floundering at NYADA without him. No, who _hoped_ he was floundering at NYADA without him.

Who was so _sure_ he'd pass muster with Carmen Tibideaux, despite her sadistic and inconsistent audition tactics.

Who had no qualms about hogging the spotlight while Kurt was around, but was suddenly willing to pass the torch now that his beloved boyfriend was far, far away.

_Maybe_, Kurt realized, _Blaine always knew I was better than him_. _Maybe _that_ is why he allowed all that to happen. Maybe that's why he keeps . . . pushing me down_.

With that thought, Kurt felt something change inside. What was it? Rage? A sense of betrayal? Or—could it be?—a strange sense of pride that came with realizing that Blaine _knew_ Kurt was a brighter star than he could ever be?

A phone rang. Kurt emerged from his reverie to see Blaine whispering into his cell. When he hung up, a huge smile lit his face.

"Good news, Kurt."

"Oh? Did you get another solo?"

Mercedes didn't quite manage to stifle her snicker.

"Your dad's fine. He's home from the hospital. He's got the all clear."

"_What?_" Kurt clenched his fist in his lap.

"I said," Blaine repeated, the same smile on his face, "That Burt is fine, at home, he's got the all-clear."

"Blaine. I was supposed to pick Dad and Carole up from the hospital. _I_ was supposed to."

Blaine shrugged. "Sam picked them up so we could have some time alone together." He gave Mercedes and Mike a less than friendly glance. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

"No."

"Kurt, don't be unreasonable."

"No. You're not driving me home."

Blaine put on his most patient voice. "Kurt, darling, this is what I'm here for—to take care of you when you need a shoulder to cry on."

Kurt noticed he was clutching his cold coffee so tightly that the cardboard was starting to buckle. Taking a deep breath, he began to swallow down the drink. It was too sweet—too saccharine—too _Blaine_. But he was _going_ to finish it anyway.

"Kurt, I told you you shouldn't drink that!" Blaine reached out his hand as if to take the cup away. "It's bad for you."

"Yeah, Blaine, we all do things that are bad for us." Kurt polished off the drink and crumpled his cup. "And then, we realize that we've been hurting ourselves, and we keep _on_ doing it. And then, the day comes when we see what lies ahead—and it's ugly. Really ugly. And we don't do it anymore."

Kurt rose and threw his trash into the nearest receptacle. When he returned to their table, he turned to Mercedes:

"Mercedes, would you take me home, please. I don't want to be here anymore. I want to be with my father and my mother and my brother. And my _friends._"

Mercedes nodded and reached for her keys.

"And," Kurt added as she slid out of the booth, "I'm never coming to this place again. It makes me sick."

Mike and Blaine watched as the two friends walked out the door. After a few moments, Mike exhaled.

"Wow. That was—something else."

"Yeah," Blaine agreed. "I can't believe that happened."

"I've never seen such a train wreck in my life. Not even when Tina got in the middle of me and my parents and forged my application to Joffrey."

"That worked out well in the end."

Mike grunted. A non-committal sound.

"But—but—how was I to know?"

"Know what, Blaine?"

"That Kurt would be so . . . unreasonable? I mean, I _know_ how he is, we've been dating for two years."

"You're not dating." A look of confusion passed over Mike's face. "Or—did I miss something?"

"Yeah, we're back together now—sorta—since the wedding."

Mike wrinkled his brow. "Oh. Funny."

"Why is it funny?"

"I just—well, I thought he was dating some guy in New York. I've seen the pictures on Facebook."

Blaine sat up a little straighter, surprise on his face.

"You didn't know?" Mike asked.

"Well, um . . . he did unfriend me. After we broke up. But those pictures must be old."

"The last one was posted just before Kurt flew here—"

"They're in the same Glee club."

"They must be very friendly in that Glee club, then." Mike lifted an eyebrow. "Look, Blaine, are you sure you're not misinterpreting things?"

"Kurt knows we're back together—he's known since the wedding—we talked about it . . . _afterwards_. You don't just have an . . . _experience_ . . . like that one and throw it away like it meant nothing."

Mike blushed. This was far more information than he wanted. However, he could see that Blaine was in distress. Those hazel eyes were staring up into his, wide-eyed and moist with tears. The expression was pleading. It reminded Mike uncomfortably of the day he and Tina had broken up—and of that other time, when he'd come back to help out with _West Side Story _and discovered that his ex was not yet ready to be friends.

It also felt faintly seductive. But that wasn't possible. Blaine was, after all, in love with _Kurt_. He must be imagining things. And he couldn't help feeling bad for Blaine, even though the boy had been irritating as hell through his entire senior year. A year at Joffrey had taught Mike a lot about the business, and he knew that Blaine's star wouldn't climb much higher—if as high—than Bryan Ryan's. Kurt was all he had.

Mike's focus came back to Blaine, who was still talking.

" . . . he's all I have, you see, and I know I messed up, but I was all alone and he was off in New York living his dream and—and—and I'm just afraid that if he gets too far out there, he'll never come back."

"But," Mike paused, "I thought you said you were together?"

Blaine's jaw firmed. "We are. Now and forever."

Mike sighed. It was time for some hard truth-telling, and frankly, he didn't feel up to it. But Mercedes was gone, so he couldn't lean on her—not like he'd gotten used to over the past seven months.

"Blaine," Mike said softly. "You're wrong. Kurt's moved on. He has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend that he's falling in love with. In New York. And even if you go there, that isn't going to change."

"You don't know anything." Blaine pushed the empty tray farther away from him, nearly knocking Mercedes's abandoned cheesecake onto the floor. "You're in _Chicago_."

"And I'm dating Mercedes. Mercedes Jones. Kurt's best friend. I know what I'm talking about."

Blaine crossed his arms.

"You can't bounce back from cheating."

"I forgave Kurt."

Chandler again! Mike wanted to throw his hands in the air, but he refrained from doing so. "Not everything can be forgiven. Or forgotten. Cheating especially."

"_Everyone_ cheats_._"

"Not me and Tina. Not me and Mercedes." Mike was appalled—how could his classmates have turned so cynical—so certain that the whole world was twisted and dishonest? Perhaps Sue Sylvester had been right—their little club was a bit too "incestuous" for its own good. It wasn't healthy. _But at least Kurt has moved on._

"Kurt has moved on," he said aloud.

Blaine shook his head slowly.

"Kurt and Adam post pictures together every week. They post pictures from each other's _bedrooms_."

The color drained from Blaine's face.

"I—I—I can't . . . believe it."

"Well, just take a deep breath—"

Blaine pounded a fist on the table, making the plastic utensils jump. "I can't believe he's _cheating _on me_. Again_."

"Calm down, Blaine—"

Blaine stood and straightened his bowtie. "I _am_ calm." Methodically, he placed all the trash from their coffee gathering on the tray, stopping only to ask if Mike was done with his tea. He threw all the garbage away and wiped the table with a fresh napkin. As he shook the crumbs onto the floor, he turned to Mike again.

"See, I'm calm. Now Kurt and I are equal. He cheated on me. I cheated on him—but that was an accident. _He_ did it on purpose. And _repeatedly._ And so now he has to accept my apology. All I have to do is show him just how much I care."

Blaine crumpled the napkin in his hand and headed for the door.

"Thanks for your help, Mike," he threw over his shoulder. "I know exactly what to do now."

Mike waited for Blaine to drive off before he left the coffee shop. He had a sinking feeling that he'd made things worse. So much for being the wise one on healthy relationships.

But . . . perhaps no amount of sage advice on stable relationships worked . . . if one of the people in the relationship wasn't actually stable.

Mike reached for his cell and hit number two on his speed-dial.

"Mercedes? Are you alone? We need to talk. Now."

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **_Glee_, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This story is inspired by the crack klaine proposals meme and the title of the final episode of the season. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**OH, AND: **This is my second foray into the _Glee_ fandom. I hope you enjoy it.


	2. At Home

_Would you build me a house__  
__All painted white__  
__Cute and clean and purty and bright_?

For several hours after Mercedes dropped him off, Kurt was jumpy. He kept expecting Blaine to decide to "check on Burt" and hang around the house. Somehow, whenever Kurt wanted to be alone with his father, Blaine turned up. It would be better now, of course. Kurt had some time off school and Blaine still had classes. Now, Kurt was home with his father and Carole and, of course, Sam.

Kurt didn't quite trust Sam anymore. He was too chummy with Blaine and kept asking questions about New York and how Kurt spent his free time. He also went on and on about what a great 'mate' Blaine was, and how lucky he was to have such a friend, and how complimented he'd been to find out that Blaine found him attractive. _That_ had thrown Kurt for a loop. Blaine had never really expressed much enthusiasm for Kurt's body.

Apparently, Sam was more his type. And Sam—_tolerant_ Sam, who had been so friendly to Kurt when they first met, now seemed obsessed with what a 'bro' and great 'guy' Blaine was. Maybe Sam wasn't quite as straight as everyone believed . . . maybe he just preferred a boy like Blaine.

Kurt felt lucky to have Adam. That blunted the pain a bit. Just a bit.

Whatever was going on, Sam's presence in the Hummel-Hudson household made things strained. Carole couldn't turn away Blaine's best friend—not after welcoming him with open arms all year. Sam wouldn't stop talking about Blaine and all their adventures together. And Finn . . . well, Finn wasn't around much. He was too busy trying to climb out of the hole he'd dug for himself at the University of Lima.

According to Sam, Kurt's step-brother had nearly busted out of college in the first few weeks due to heavy drinking and irresponsible partying. Also according to Sam, _Blaine_ had talked Finn back from the edge.

_Funny, that_, Kurt thought. _Finn and Puck both claim it was _Puck_ who knocked some sense into my brother_. _Literally._

Kurt realized he was wringing his hands, took a deep breath, and placed them nonchalantly on his knees. He willed himself to relax. His father was sleeping, but when he woke up, Kurt wanted to look calm and happy. He didn't want the stress to show on his countenance or in his eyes. He schooled his face into a neutral expression. Then, he tried for a slight, hopeful smile. _Perhaps this is the moment to practice my sense-memory skills_.

But no happy thoughts came—except that his father was—for the time being—in the clear. And beholden to Blaine for all those months of "caretaking." Kurt wasn't sure what that "caretaking" had entailed, but apparently the Hummels were endlessly grateful—or they should be.

_It's a good thing dementors aren't real_, Kurt mused, _because if one showed up right now, I would be doomed_.

Kurt jumped as his phone buzzed on the bedside table. Grabbing it before the vibrations disturbed his dad, Kurt silenced the phone. Then, he checked his text messages.

_Mercedes_. What did she have to say so soon after their coffee date?

He opened the message:

"blaine up 2 smth. b prepared. mike followed blaine to jwlry store. xpect big scene."

Before Kurt could fully process the message, a second came through—this one from Mike.

"Advise you to tell Burt and Carole the truth about the breakup. Better that way. Brace yourself for anything."

Once again wringing his hands, Kurt sat beside his father and waited. After Burt woke up and they exchanged hugs and I love yous, Kurt called in his step-mother and locked the door behind them.

"Dad . . . Carole . . ." Kurt started, bracing himself, "there's something we have to talk about."

Carole took one look into her son's eyes and sank into the nearest chair. She and Burt reached for each other's hands—and automatically, unthinkingly, they found each other. It was such a simple gesture—holding hands—and yet when you held hands with someone you truly loved, it could change everything in the world.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me?" Burt was still too hazy from the anesthetic to muster up much anger, but he had understood Kurt's story completely. "Why . . . Kurt . . . why didn't you tell me?"

"I—don't really know."

A tear rolled down Carole's cheek.

"Why didn't Finn say anything?" she whispered.

Kurt shrugged. He'd always hoped he'd become close to his stepbrother, but somehow it had never happened. Finn never stepped up to the plate when Kurt was in trouble, and as much as Kurt loved his brother (and believed his brother loved him), he had finally accepted that he couldn't expect much help from that corner.

Carole was still waiting for an answer, so Kurt offered the best justification he could: "I suppose he didn't think it was his business to tell."

"If we'd known—" Carole started.

"If I'd known—" Burt said at the same time.

Carole inclined her head towards her husband.

"If I'd known," he continued, "I would never have let Blaine talk me into bringing him to New York."

"He said—" Carole swallowed. "He said that you wanted him to spend as much time as possible here since you couldn't be in Lima."

"Why didn't you tell me, Kurt?" This time, Kurt could see the pain in his father's eyes.

"Because—every time I called to try, he was here, hanging out with Sam, or taking you to the doctor's while Carole was at work, or—or—or I don't know _what_ he was doing, but he was _here_ and he'd ask to talk to me on the _phone_ and no matter how I tried to tell him, he wouldn't back off."

The room fell silent.

"Is that all?"

"No."

"What, then?" Burt demanded.

"I—I—" Kurt choked, "I thought that maybe—you liked him, and Sam, and Finn, better as sons."

Carole gasped and Burt shook his head mutely. Once he'd caught his breath and gotten his heart rate back to normal, he spoke:

"You, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, are my one and only son, and I thought you knew that you came first—_always._ I'm sorry, Carole, but you know it's true, and I know it's the same with Finn for you. If you had told me . . . "

Burt's jaw tensed and Carole covered his hand with hers again.

"Blaine Anderson is no longer welcome in our house," she said.

"And . . . that's . . . final," Burt murmured. His eyes closed.

"Dad—" Kurt jumped up.

Carole shushed him and told him it was just the after-effects of the medication. "We should let your father rest now."

"The medicine . . ." Kurt echoed. "Will he remember—will he remember what we talked about?"

Carole adjusted the blankets over her husband's sleeping form. "I think you can rest assured, Kurt," she said, meeting her stepson's eyes, "that this is one conversation that your father will _never_ forget.

"And neither will I," she added forcefully.

Kurt sank down in his chair, ready to begin his vigil all over again.

"Don't you want a break, sweetie?" Carole asked.

"No," he said, a little too quick. "No, thank you. I'd—rather stay here. I'd rather not hear any more about Blaine or the New Directions or NYADA or any of that."

"Sam talks too much."

"Sometimes," Kurt said. "But back in the beginning—before Blaine, you know—he was one of the best of the bunch. He accepted me as I am."

"Like Adam?"

"Like Adam."

Kurt felt Carole move behind him. She tentatively touched his hair, then changed her mind and squeezed his shoulder. Kurt looked up at her questioningly.

"I—I always used to ruffle Finn's hair . . . when he was upset. But I was afraid you wouldn't like it. You take so much care with it . . ."

Kurt smiled weakly. "I don't mind, Carole. Just this once, behind closed doors."

He felt her tentatively stroke his hair, and memories of his own mom rushed back. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"You know I love you, too, don't you, Kurt? _Both_ of us love you."

Kurt nodded again, then sniffled. Carole sensed that he wanted to be alone—that her boy didn't want anyone to see him this vulnerable.

"I'll . . . bring you some hot chocolate, OK?"

"OK."

Kurt listened as Carole's footsteps went towards the door. As it opened, he said "Thank you . . ."

Just after it clicked closed, he added ". . . Mom."

* * *

Sam was trying to coax Lady Tubbington out from under his bed when his cell phone chimed. A message. A welcome distraction from the she-devil with claws who still hadn't forgiven him for the whole locker-duffle-bag incident. Sam grabbed the phone off his rickety desk.

He groaned when he saw what the message was about.

**Blaine**: "Got it."

He'd actually done it. Actually gone out and bought an engagement ring. Laying back on his rumpled bed, Sam prepared for a marathon texting session.

"Wish me luck, Lady Tubs."

The cat hissed yet again. Sam turned his attention back to the cell phone.

**Sam**: "is it the rite size?"

**Blaine**: "Shit."

**Blaine**: "How do you know about sizing rings?"

**Sam**: "Me n Britt got married, remember."

**Blaine**: "Oh. Yeah."

**Sam**: "i got teh wrong size to, so dont worry. U can return it after."

**Blaine**: "But once I put it on his finger, I want it to stay there forever."

**Sam**: "thats a little unrelistic, bro."

**Blaine:** "What are you implying?!"

**Sam**: "well, u cant always wear a ring. i take mine off for noodle art bcs of glue n paint."

**Blaine**: "Oh."

**Sam**: "so, whats the plan."

**Blaine**: "I'm going to propose to Kurt."

**Sam**: "soon?"

**Blaine**: "ASAP"

**Sam**: "dude, r u sure thats a good idea."

**Blaine**: "I can't let him get away. You can't argue this, you and Brittany got married."

**Sam**: "we thought the world was endng."

**Sam**: "makes a difrence, right?"

**Blaine**: "I'm doing this, Sam. Are you in, or are you out?"

**Sam**: "I dunno, shouldnt we be thinking of reginals?"

**Blaine**: "I can't think about anything without Kurt."

**Sam**: " . . . "

**Blaine**: "I can't think about anything EXCEPT Kurt."

**Sam**: " . . . "

[Long Pause]

**Sam**: "isnt it weird how all th show chiors have names that sound like sex stuff? Even the nun-touchables?"

**Blaine**: " . . . "

**Sam**: "or is it teh nUnTouchables? rotflmao."

**Blaine**: "Do you think Kurt would like it if I proposed in my superhero costume."

**Sam**: "waht?!"

**Blaine**: "Do you think Kurt would like it if I proposed in my superhero costume? Sorry, forgot the question mark."

**Sam**: "NO. that idea bites, man. majorly sux. worse than the whosierdaddies name."

**Blaine**: "Cut it out about Glee Club. I'm thinking about more important things."

**Sam**: "when artie made u the new rachel i nevr knew youd take it this far."

**Sam**: "u sure u r ready 4 this?"

**Blaine**: "I'm sure. I just need the perfect setting and the perfect audience and the perfect song."

**Sam**: "i think u r going 2 fast on this"

**Blaine**: "Either help me or butt out."

**Sam**: " . . . "

**Blaine**: "?"

**Sam**: ". . . "

**Blaine**: "Sam?"

**Sam**: "yeh?"

**Blaine**: "Are you going to help me?"

**Sam**: "its against my beter judgment but ok. no superhero costumes. K wont like that."

**Blaine**: "How do you know?"

**Sam**: "u've ben dating him how long and dont know he hates superhros? thats BASIC like knowing Britt likes cats."

**Blaine**: " . . . "

**Blaine**: "OK, no superhero costumes."

**Blaine**: "Should I sing 'Teenage Dream'?"

**Sam**: "!?what!? maybe u shouldnt sing at all?"

**Blaine**: "Don't tease me, I'm serious."

**Sam**: "so was i."

**Blaine**: "I have to sing. How else can I show him how I really feel?"

**Sam**: "ok but don't look at me this time."

**Blaine**: "What are you talking about?"

**Sam**: " . . . "

[Long pause]

**Sam**: "never mind"

**Blaine**: "I've got a bunch of great sheet music, I'll bring it over now. Be there in ten minutes."

**Sam**: "wait. u cant come here. u r uninvited. carole says."

**Blaine**: "What? Why not?"

**Sam**: "i think kurt told them abt eli."

**Blaine**: "Fuck!"

**Sam**: "yeah, that's exactly what he told them abt."

**Blaine**: "Shut up, gotta think."

**Sam**: "im texting u, im not saying a word. r u sure this proposal is a good idea, i dont think kurt will like it."

**Blaine**: "It's all about style, I just have to figure out the right words to say and the right song to sing and he'll understand."

**Sam**: " . . . "

**Sam**: "ok"

**Blaine**: " . . . "

**Sam**: "what abt come what may frm that movie with the dying chick?"

**Blaine**: "Why would I want to sing that?"

**Sam**: "kurt said it was ur fantisy wedding song."

**Blaine**: "Oh. Yeah. But it's a duet. I need to tell Kurt how I really feel."

**Sam**: "u might want to let kurt get a few words in, pick smthng he knows."

**Sam**: "dont forget kurt likes brdway better than pop songs."

**Blaine**: "I don't do Broadway."

**Sam**: "u did west side story."

**Blaine**: "That was different, I needed that for my resume."

**Sam**: "so u dont have sheet music 4 bwy songs at ur place n u cant come here."

**Blaine**: " . . . "

**Blaine**: "We need a plan, Kurt's leaving soon."

**Sam**: "we? its ur proposal."

**Blaine**: "Sam, you have to help me. I gave you money for food."

**Sam**: "did u really think the Hummel-Hudsons were starving me?"

**Blaine**: " . . . "

[Long pause.]

**Sam**: "never mind."

**Sam**: "look, dude, i still dont think this is a good idea but ill go to kurts room and look thru his sheet music n stuff. hes out w mercedes now. ill find u the perfect song to expln how u feel n u can set up the rest. ur good at that showmanship stuff."

**Blaine**: "Cool. You are the best. I know you'll find the right song and Kurt will understand just how I feel about him. Deal?"

**Sam**: "deal."

* * *

Sam put his cell down with a sigh. He ran his hand through his hair, noting just how overgrown and greasy it was.

This whole thing with Blaine was getting out of control.

When had things gotten so complicated? He was pretty sure that if he'd never joined Glee club his life would be a lot simpler now. He'd still be struggling in school, he'd have fewer friends, but he wouldn't be constantly in the middle of crazy-making drama. First there had been Kurt, who'd seemed so sweet and then just . . . backed away. Then Quinn, and cheating, and Mercedes, and cheating, and—Santana, too—and now he was stuck between Brittany, who he cared for, and Blaine, who cared a little to much for _him_.

And that was cool. It's not like getting crushed on by a gay guy was bad—though maybe he'd gone off the tracks a bit with Blaine. Somehow, he felt like things weren't right—that he'd become a hypocrite along the way, that somewhere on this fucked up merry-go-round of dating, he'd lost a bit of himself.

And that lost part was beginning to feel like the bit of himself that he'd liked the most. He hadn't forgotten how kind Kurt had been to him when he first came to McKinley. He hadn't been afraid of being labeled gay by association. Then things changed—Finn swooped in, the guys formed a circle around him, he'd started dating a cheerleader, and had far too many heartbreaks too quickly. He'd given into the pressure from Finn and the other guys to pick the right, more _masculine_ team.

Then, there had been the strip club. The men who hit on him. The assumptions people had made about him. The way that made him feel inside. The dollars shoved into his hands and thong and even, sometimes, his mouth. When Finn and Rachel had 'rescued' him, he'd put on a brave face, but he was glad to get the hell out of that sleazy joint. He _knew_ what people thought about male strippers. He _knew_ what clientele they usually had. And he knew the whispers that would circulate about him.

And so he'd hardened himself even more. He'd turned towards his ultra-manly 'bros.' He'd pushed away the equal friendship Kurt offered. Even though they lived in the same house, he'd kept his distance. "Lady Hummel" couldn't be a part of Sam Evans's life—because Sam had regressed. He'd gone from tolerant to terrified.

Terrified of what? Of being thought gay? Of being recognized as bisexual? Of being called a prostitute and slut-shamed because he'd picked the 'easy' way to make money and support his family? Was he afraid that someone would walk up to him in public and shove money in his face? _Who would do that kind of thing_?

Sam paced from one end of his room to the other—which was tough, since his was a tiny room. Still, moving helped him think. He knew he wasn't the smartest guy around, but he wasn't the stupidest, either. He recognized when he screwed up—and he'd screwed up with Kurt. Now, Blaine was screwing up, too. And he felt . . .

What did he feel? Confused? No. Conflicted? Yes, _conflicted_. Blaine was his friend, and his friend needed his help. Blaine needed his help to get Kurt. All year, Sam had stood by Blaine. Soothed Blaine. Hung out with Blaine. Plotted with Blaine. Dressed up in silly costumes with Blaine. Sung with Blaine. They'd had fun. Just like he and Brittany had had fun—though without the love and the sex.

Except . . . there was love. Blaine's love. For him, Sam. And Sam _knew_ it. He was even OK with it, though he would never cheat on anyone _ever_ again. He was determined to be with Britt forever, bogus as their first wedding had been.

But _Kurt_—Kurt wouldn't be OK with Blaine being in love with another man. And so to push those two together would be wrong. Wouldn't it?

Sam sat on his bed and opened the drawer in his bedside table. Inside lay the macaroni portrait he'd made of Kurt—Kurt, who should almost be a brother to him, seeing as they'd lived together for so long. Seeing as Kurt, out of all the Glee Club members, had reached out to him first. All this time later, Kurt was still his hero for being friendly, for being strong, for being himself, and for fighting against all odds.

_Against all Odds. _

Suddenly, Sam felt hot. He was blushing—and he knew why. No, Sam was not the smartest guy around, but he wasn't stupid. He'd seen the changes that came over Kurt when Blaine was around. One thing Sam knew from watching his parents—and from watching Burt and Carole, who were almost like parents to him—was that good partners bring out the best in each other.

And Blaine was screwing Kurt up. And he was going to keep on doing it.

"If I don't act," Sam told the reflection in his mirror, "This Macaroni Portrait is all that's gonna be left of Kurt Elizabeth Hummel."

Sam stared at himself for a long time—or so it seemed—but no matter how hard he thought, he kept coming back to the same place. Blaine's proposal couldn't be derailed. Blaine wouldn't allow it. And Blaine was bad for Kurt, while Kurt had been good to Sam.

It was time that _someone_ did _something_ to put an end to the fiasco. And that someone was Sam Evans. Simple, regular, not-too-bright but not-too-stupid Sam Evans. He didn't even need a superhero costume.

All he needed was the perfect song.

And a haircut. He needed a haircut. Really bad.

* * *

******DISCLAIMER: **_Glee_, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.

******AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This story is inspired by the crack klaine proposals meme and the title of the final episode of the season. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

******OH, AND: **This is my second foray into the _Glee_ fandom. I hope you enjoy it.


	3. Down Below

_I heared how you was kickin' up some capers  
When I was off in Kansas City, Mo.  
I heard some things you couldn't print in papers  
From fellers who been talkin' like they know!_

Sam, frowning, strummed a few chords on his guitar. It needed tuning. As he adjusted the strings, he looked around Kurt's room with a sinking feeling. He was making a mess of it—literally and metaphorically. The clock was ticking and Sam was beginning to despair of finding the perfect Broadway proposal song. He'd been crazy to think he could. He didn't know enough _about_ Broadway. It wasn't his style. And to tell the truth, he wasn't sure how to pick a proposal song that would please Blaine without coercing Kurt.

And coercing Kurt into marriage was the last thing Sam wanted to do.

But . . . he had to keep his word to his best friend, right? Because Blaine _needed_ him. He'd needed Sam and Tina and all the rest of the New Directions to hold him together all year long. And they'd humored him, because . . . well, Blaine could be a really fun, charming guy—until he wasn't. No one liked Blaine when he was in one of his pets.

So, Sam had to find a song. And the best place to find a song that Kurt would love was right here, in Kurt's room. Still, it felt _wrong_ to be sitting in Kurt's bedroom, his beloved sheet music scattered across the floor. Sam hadn't _quite_ crossed the line by coming down here—at least, he didn't think so. Carole and Burt had given him permission to practice in the basement while Kurt was gone—really, the acoustics were better down here. But now that Kurt was home . . .

Sam strummed another chord, then nodded. That was better.

The worst thing he had done that night, however, was open Kurt's computer. He'd just wanted to go through the music folder. Unfortunately, the first thing Sam saw was Kurt's desktop wallpaper: a photograph of Kurt and a blond man in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park.

They looked happy together.

Maybe that's why all the songs Sam found came out wrong. First, he'd gone for the obvious: _Les Miserables_. Hadn't that Anne Hathaway chick just won an award for singing that in some movie? And she kind of looked like Kurt. So Sam had found the sheet music, tried the song, and choked up as he sung the last line: "_Now life has killed the dream I dreamed_."

No, he decided, that one wasn't going to work.

Then he found _Jane Eyre: The Musical_. _Jane Eyre_ was supposed to be a romantic story, right? And—Sam frowned—it had something to do with redemption. That's what Mrs. Harrison had said, anyway. The song titles looked promising—especially since (in Sam's opinion), Blaine had a lot to make up for. He decided to listen to one called "As Good as You."

"_Love is like a virus we're infected with. You're so naive.  
__Wouldn't it be wonderful if life were just as you perceive.  
__Women are inhuman, worthless—_"

Sam hit pause.

"Well, that one's out, isn't it, Lady Tubs?"

The cat hissed.

"You're right, it's too bitter. And who wants to get married because of a virus?"

The Mayan apocalypse was another matter entirely . . .

Lady Tubbington watched him through narrowed eyes. Why _did_ that cat follow him around the house, only to spit and claw and glare at him? Sam guessed Brittany had been right to ream him out for keeping a cat in his locker. He was never going to be forgiven for that one. Not by _either_ of the women in his life.

"So, what's next?" Sam sighed, scrolling through Kurt's iTunes library. "_Notre Dame de Paris_? Kurt likes French, right?"

Sam wasn't at all sure that Blaine could sing in French, but it was worth a try. He picked a song at random, something called "_D____échiré__." _It sounded promising—really passionate—except that Sam kept hearing the word ___femme._ However_,_ ___femme_ and ___homme _were two words that Sam did know, and they sort of rhymed. Easy substitution.

"So, is this the one?" Sam felt hopeful. It had been a long day and Sam was ready to pick something and go to bed.

But the cat hissed again.

"No? What's wrong with it?"

Lady Tubbington paced back and forth on the sheet music, her tail swishing impatiently. Sam decided to take a page out of Brittany's book and talk to Lady Tubs as if she could understand him.

"Do you think I need to check it out some more?"

Lady Tubs sat down and looked at Sam steadily.

"Okay. You're kinda creeping me out . . ." Sam turned towards the computer and did a search, turning up a translation. As Sam read the English lyrics, his eyes grew wider:

___ "Torn apart, I am a man divided.  
Torn apart, I want two women's love.  
Two women want my love; I'm just glad I have love enough for two._

___ "One for the day, the other for the night.  
One just for now, the other all my life.  
One for always, until the end of time.  
The other soon will find, my love won't stay—"  
_

Sam closed the browser window. Even—no, especially—with a lyric switch, that song hit way too close to home. It also sounded a lot better in French.

"Thank you, Lady T. You just saved my ass."

If he had had a kitty treat, Sam would have given it to the she-devil on the spot. Even though she'd probably take his fingers off right along with it. He decided to follow Lady Tubbington's advice more often.

Britt was probably right. Cats really did have a sixth sense.

* * *

The clock was striking midnight when Kurt slipped in the front door.

A night away from home had been exactly what he'd needed: just him, Mercedes, and a marathon viewing of _Soap_. Sometimes Kurt felt that he—like Benson—was the only sane man in the midst of a melodrama. _Except_, Kurt reminded himself, _that wouldn't be fair to melodrama_. No, Kurt's life was neither a melodrama nor a soap opera. It was just a mess, and he—Kurt—was not above that mess. He was a part of it.

Twelve chimes, yes. "Cinderella" had come home, and Kurt was not looking forward to spending the next few days sweeping up the ashes. For a few blissful hours—after Mercedes had dished about Mike's discovery and Blaine's delusions—Kurt had pushed aside the reality of what he was facing: a sick father, an unstable ex-boyfriend, a roommate who was _spying_ on him, and—

Kurt froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob to the basement.

_What was that_?_ Music_?

There was someone in his room.

For one horrifying moment, he thought it was Blaine—that somehow, Blaine had snuck in and was waiting for him in his bedroom. Kurt shuddered. Burt and Carole and Sam wouldn't even be able to hear him scream. They slept upstairs.

Then, Kurt heard the distinctive sound of a guitar.

_Sam_.

Sam, Blaine's co-conspirator. Sam, who'd swept in and driven Burt and Carole home from the hospital, even though everyone had agreed that that was _Kurt_'s job. Sam, whom Kurt had helped when he was down—and who was now not only living in the Hummel home, but was also taking over Kurt's last refuge. Sexy-superhero-Sam, who was probably running some kind of stealth operation against his almost-brother (if only he weren't so very _gay_).

Kurt could feel his chest constrict as he reached for the doorknob and started down the stairs. Sure enough, the blond boy wonder was curled up against Kurt's bed. All of Kurt's sheet music was scattered on the floor—well, no, not scattered, piled. But still—that was _so_ unacceptable.

Worse, Kurt's laptop was open on the floor in front of Sam, who continued to pick out a tune on a guitar and hum to himself. Kurt gritted his teeth and cleared his throat. Nothing. He cleared his throat again, then went on the attack:

"Get lost on the way upstairs, Sam? I can show you the way back to _your_ room."

The music stopped, but Sam kept his eyes downcast.

Kurt's voice hardened. "What are you doing in my room, Sam?"

Sam opened his mouth once or twice, but no sound came out. Kurt walked to the bottom of the stairs, then caught his peer's eyes.

They were damp with tears. Kurt stepped back. He hadn't expected that.

"Sam?" He tried again, coming closer. "What are you doing in here?"

Again, Sam was silent. Kurt sighed and sat on the floor next to the young man whom he'd once considered a blond Adonis. Where had that boy gone? Instead of a fresh-faced Justin Bieber look-alike, Kurt found himself staring at ratty, greasy-haired bum.

A ratty, greasy-haired bum who had taken over his room, riffled through his stuff, and gone into his computer, which should be _sacred_. What if he'd had porn on there? Or . . . if he'd left his diary open?

Kurt shuddered.

"I think," he said, "We need to have a serious talk. About boundaries. What they are, and how not to cross them. Because you're crossing way too many lately."

Sam nodded. Kurt was taken aback when he saw that Sam's eyes were bloodshot, as if he'd been crying for quite some time. In fact, his eyes still seemed a bit—

Kurt sighed.

"Here, Sam. Take this." Kurt handed Sam the handkerchief that Adam had lent him, then surveyed the destruction around him. Sam wiped the last of the tears from his eyes.

"I've fucked up, Kurt."

"I'll say."

"No, really, I've fucked up. And . . . I'm fucked."

Kurt let out a derisive snort, but when Sam looked back down at the floor, he softened.

"What are you doing in my room tonight, Sam? Why are you going through my stuff? My computer? Why would you _do_ that?"

Sam picked a few more notes on his guitar . . . just a short phrase, but a familiar one. Kurt couldn't quite place it.

"I was looking for a love song."

Again, Kurt felt a tightening in his stomach. "A what?"

"A love song. A Broadway love song."

"Oh." Kurt's heart started to pound. "Did you find one?"

"Yes," Sam whispered. "But not . . . the right kind. Not the kind I was supposed to find."

Kurt didn't want to know what kind of love song Sam was _supposed_ to find. He could only suppose it had something to do with Blaine's crackpot engagement scheme. And Kurt didn't want to hear anything more about that, not tonight. Time to deflect.

"What did you find?"

"Something for me. I've been practicing for hours—but I can't sing the first part. I'll have to find someone, maybe Marley. She probably won't laugh. Wanna hear?"

Kurt nodded and Sam began to play. He couldn't mask his shock when he recognized "Heart an' Hand" from _Floyd Collins_. He knew all the words, of course, and so he began to sing the first part of the song:

_When times is hard to endure  
__And the world feels a wilderness  
__The times is for making a family  
__Tis a wintery wind to be sure  
__And when it won't quit blowing  
__The times is fer goin' home . . ._

Sam looked up in surprise, screwing up his instrumental.

"Don't stop, Sam." The blond started playing again, taking the man's part for his own:

_Ain't much bacon in the pan  
Or coffee in the pot.  
Runnin' real low on firewood,  
But we sure as hell have us some family.  
Craziest bunch of fools was ever begot,  
But thar ain't no figurin' what the Lord plans,  
An' I don't want no other man's home._

Finally, Kurt and Sam joined in harmony:

_An' as one sweet soul to another,  
A fam'ly tries to sing lullabies to each other.  
Hush, my darlin';  
Hush-a-bye, angel.  
I'm aside you heart an' hand.  
Right aside you I will stand;  
I will stand  
__heart an' hand._

The pair sat in silence for several moments. Finally, Sam spoke:

"Looks like we finally got our duet, Kurt." He was tearing up again. Kurt looked away as his housemate made use of Adam's handkerchief.

"You always did want to bring a more country sound to Glee Club," Kurt murmured.

"This wasn't _supposed_ to be for Glee Club. This wasn't even supposed to be for _me._" Sam bit his lower lip. "I didn't do too good tonight, Kurt. I broke your trust, I came down here to do someone a favor—and yet, everything I tried was wrong."

"Sam, you can't just—pick love songs—for other people."

Sam sighed. "I guess that's why I ended up with one . . . about my family."

Suddenly, Kurt felt guilty. Even with Sam living in the Hummel-Hudson house, Kurt tended to forget that Sam's parents and siblings was so far away. He hadn't even asked after them.

"How are they, anyway?" he ventured.

"Dad's . . . working again. In a coal mine."

"Oh."

"Yeah. _Floyd Collins_ was kinda a . . . kick in the stomach. I mean, what if Dad just . . . falls down a hole . . . and never comes back up? What'll happen to my brother and sister then?"

Kurt quashed an impulse to point out that Collins had died while spelunking, not mining. This wasn't the time to go into one of his pedantic phases.

"And all this time," Sam whispered, "I've been living here, safe, in a good school, eating well, and living a normal life. Why can't Stevie and Stacey have what I have? What's so special about me?"

Kurt didn't have an answer. He just watched as Sam loosened the strings on his guitar and carefully put it back in its case. _Sam loved that guitar . . ._

"You're right, Kurt. I shouldn't have come down here. When you're gone—I mean, in New York—Burt lets me practice in here. Everything sounds better in this room. But you're home, and I didn't come down just to practice."

"You went through my stuff."

Sam nodded.

"You opened my computer."

Sam nodded again, even more miserably. A silence stretched between them.

"Kurt?"

"Hmm?"

"Is that—Adam—on your wallpaper?"

"Yes."

"You look happy together."

"We _are_ happy together."

Sam fingered the handkerchief. "This is his, too. The initials are right in the corner. A.C."

Kurt nodded and told Sam that Adam had given it to him just before he'd left to visit his father, in the hopes that he wouldn't need it.

"I—I really appreciate you lending it to me. I'll wash it and give it back tomorrow, OK?"

Kurt hugged his knees to his chest.

"Can I—please—borrow a few of these songs? Just for a day or two?"

Kurt stared straight ahead for a few beats.

"I know what they're for, Sam. I don't like it. And I don't like that you're helping Blaine do this to me—whatever 'this' turns out to be."

Sam, standing, towered over Kurt, yet he felt about two inches high. He felt trapped—wrong—and defenseless. He could only plead his case.

"What would _you_ do, Kurt? What would you do if you'd someone leaning on you all year, begging you for help? What would you do if you knew helping was wrong, but you _promised_ before you knew better? What would _you _do if you'd been watching your friend go off the deep end for a year—and _no one_, no matter how hard they try, can seem to pull him back again?"

"I wouldn't use my almighty driver's license to give said _friend_ a chance to force himself where he's not welcome."

"What?" Sam's eyes widened.

"_I_ was supposed to drive Dad home today."

"But Blaine said—"

Kurt raised his hand. He didn't want to hear any more about Blaine. Not tonight.

"Take the music, Sam. Just make sure that—if you're picking a love song for someone else—you pick one that is truthful. _Even if it hurts_."

Sam nodded and picked up several sheafs of music.

"Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Goodnight, Sam."

"But—the mess. You like your room neat."

Kurt threw himself onto his bed. "I also like to sleep. Go away. I'll pick up in the morning."

Kurt could hear the clock strike one as Sam slipped out of the room. Not even bothering to undress or turn out the light, he closed his eyes. So many thoughts. So many problems. So much . . . confusion. Who _could_ he trust?

At least Burt and Carole were on his side.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Kurt could have sworn he felt something jump onto the bed, curl up next to him, and start to purr. _It must be a dream_, he told himself. _But at least it's a pleasant one._

* * *

The first thing Sam found when he'd come back to his room was a message from Blaine: "Have you got a song yet?" When Sam texted back that he was still working on it, Blaine responded with impatience. There were only so many days before Kurt would be getting on a plane and flying back to New York City.

Back to the other man.

Sam was still clutching Adam's handkerchief. A handkerchief and a picture: such little things, really, but they made Kurt's new boyfriend _real_. That was all it took. A bit of monogrammed fabric—and a photograph of the most cliched New York date imaginable. Yet, somehow, those two images stuck in Sam's brain. Kurt's smiling face, and the tall, handsome stranger who had given Kurt a shoulder to cry on—and in the absence of that, a scrap of linen.

It wasn't much, but it ran so much deeper than yet another love song.

Sam's phone chimed again.

**Blaine: **"Did you know that Kurt's been cheating on me?"

**Blaine:** "Mike knew."

**Blaine:** "I can't get over that. I can't believe he did it."

Sam wanted to throw something, but he couldn't afford to replace his phone.

**Sam: **"u cheated on him 2."

**Blaine:** "Totally an accident and I've more than made up for it."

**Sam:** "k. if you say so. i want 2 sleep now. i hv ben looking for music 4 u all nite."

**Blaine:** "Well, when you find a song, make sure it's clear that I'm not willing to share. From now on, Kurt is with me—or not. There can be nothing in-between."

**Sam:** "wd u shut up pls. its after 1."

**Blaine**: "Sure. Thanks, Sam, I appreciate your help. Sweet dreams."

Sam's hand hovered over his phone for a moment. Usually, he'd say goodnight back—but he didn't want to, not tonight. Instead, he messaged Joe Hart: "need 2 call emergncy mtng of God Squad. tmrow after Church in teh park. PLEASE."

After hitting send, Sam silenced his phone, turned out the lights, and tried to will himself to sleep. It didn't work.

He tossed and turned all night.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **_Glee_, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This story is inspired by the crack klaine proposals meme and the title of the final episode of the season. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**OH, AND: **This is my second foray into the _Glee_ fandom. I hope you enjoy it.


	4. Nature and Nurture

_I go and sow my last wild oat!  
__I cut out all shenanigans.  
__I save my money, don't gamble or drink  
__In the back room down at Flannigans!_

The pounding at the door started at seven in the morning. Carole—always an early riser—was already up, nursing a cup of coffee and studying the advice columns in the Sunday paper. Pushing her reading glasses on top of her head, she wondered who would come by so early. Several of their neighbors had dropped off casseroles and other such gifts, but surely they wouldn't risk waking Burt the day after he got back from the hospital?

With a sigh, Carole rose and tightened the belt of her robe. Whoever was at the door was wasn't going away, and she didn't want the noise to wake her husband—or Kurt or Sam, for that matter. She shuffled towards the front door and flipped the deadbolt. The bright morning light made her wince.

"Good morning, Carole." Blaine smiled. "I thought I'd sit with Burt while you and Sam are at church."

"No." Carole started to close the door, then hesitated. "But thank you."

"What do you mean, 'no'? We do this every week—gives you a chance to get away, you know, have some time on your own."

When Blaine stepped forward and put his hand on the door, Carole calculated their relative strengths. Could she push the door shut and lock it if Blaine threw his weight against her? _No_, she concluded, _probably not_. She'd have to bluff her way through this and hope her unwelcome guest didn't wake her husband or step-son.

"It's not necessary this week," she said, smiling. "Kurt wants to spend time with his father."

"Great! I'll keep them both company. I'll make breakfast. I can throw together an omelet that's out of this world." Blaine pushed on the door, and Carole planted her foot behind it, bracing herself.

"I said your help isn't necessary this week—or any week in the future, Blaine."

Something flickered in the teen's eyes—something Carole didn't like at all—though he did let go of the door. She'd have to have a word with Finn the next time she saw him. His and Will's little protegee was getting out of hand.

"I've helped you a lot, Carole," Blaine insisted. "I've been here for you. Do you think I'm just going to go away? Just like that? This is, like, our _tradition_."

Carole was not a hard woman, though goodness knows she could have become one. She hated to look at a little boy—a hurt little boy—and push him away. But, she reminded herself, Blaine was not a boy anymore. He was a young man. A young man who had cheated on her son. A young man who had lied his way into their home, insinuating that it was Kurt's wish that he be there through all those hard months when her husband's prognosis had been unclear.

No, _this_ was no boy. This was a man, and not one she wanted inside her home. She'd read enough advice columns to know that if she gave an inch, he'd take a mile. If she let him in the door, he'd come back over and over again. If there was any time to harden her heart, this was it. She would do it—for her family's sake.

"Traditions can be broken. You're not welcome here, Blaine. Not anymore." Carole took a deep breath. "We know what—what—you _did_ to Kurt. And we don't want you here."

"But Carole—"

"Leave. Now."

Carole met Blaine's anguished eyes for a moment as she pushed the door shut. When the lock clicked into place and she'd fastened the chain, she leaned against the door. After a few moments, the knocking started again, and she could hear Blaine calling her name. Sighing, she tightened the belt of her robe again, shuffled back into the kitchen, and rustled through the papers on the table. She folded each section neatly so she could bring it up for Burt to read.

Later.

_What was it about her kids_? Carole bit her lip. _Why did they keep getting into these disastrous relationships_? _Getting engaged and fake-married in high school_? _Had she been . . . a bad mother_? She'd tried her best with Finn, but raising him alone had been hard. Maybe she'd set a bad example. Perhaps her affair with Darren-the-lawn-guy had been foolish. But that didn't explain why Sam—who was in her charge—had bought into the Mayan apocalypse, or why Kurt—who had always seemed so sensible—had ended up in such a toxic relationship.

Or why she had let herself be drawn into Blaine's web.

Carole had to face the truth: She'd never had much luck with men. Burt, the gem of a man who had become the father to her son and given her another child to love, was the only exception. But even having two loving parents at home _wasn't enough_ to protect her boys. Life was a delicate, ambiguous thing, and she'd been foolish to forget that the most polished exteriors could conceal a monster. Like her first husband had become. Like Blaine had turned out.

They had handsome faces and charming words, but what lay beneath? Carole felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

_Yes_, she thought as she poured the dregs of her coffee into the sink, _it's an ugly, ugly world._ _Maybe it's time to write another letter to Dear Abby_ . . .

The only problem was that the answer wouldn't come in time.

* * *

In his car outside the Hudson-Hummel house, Blaine was rubbing his knuckles. They were raw from knocking. Much good _that_ had done him: Carole wouldn't budge. It was like Sam had said in his text: Carole Hudson had uninvited him. Wouldn't even let him step across the threshold.

What was he, some sort of vampire? Blaine smiled. No, he was one-hundred-percent human. There weren't any spells, or crosses, or holy waters that could keep him from Kurt's doorstep.

Besides, Carole wasn't Kurt's mother. She was just a stepmother. Really, she had no right to decide who Kurt could or couldn't see. And this wasn't even her _house_—not really. It was Burt's. And Burt would understand, even if Carole couldn't. Blaine just had to show that he was in earnest. He might have messed up with Eli, but surely that was a small transgression. Kurt had done much worse to him, and Blaine was still willing to have him.

_Eager_ to have him, even.

Kurt was lucky he'd found someone so forgiving to love him. Someone who would look past all his mistakes and imperfections and lack of consideration for others' feelings. Someone who could tone Kurt down when he got too wild, too flashy—when he stood out too much. Someone who could shield Kurt from everyone else. Burt had always understood that Kurt needed to be protected. He'd understood from the beginning; they'd been _simpatico_ from the time that they'd agreed that a kilt wasn't proper prom-wear.

_A shame Kurt was so unwilling to listen to reason_.

But it didn't matter. He'd come around. Anyway, once they were married, Kurt would have to bend. And if, for now, Kurt wanted to play the victim—to pretend like that one meaningless night with Eli was worse than Kurt's continued cheating with that British bastard, then so be it. Blaine would play his part in the game. He'd out-maneuver Adam Crawford. He'd shower Kurt with attention. He'd show him exactly what he had been missing for all these months.

Blaine turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway.

Kurt always had wanted romance. It was irritating, really: Kurt's fantasies of dewy meadows and sunrises and rose-petal covered sheets. They had nothing to do with the way the things worked. The world never going to be as _pretty_ as Kurt pretended: it was all about sweat, and sex, and winning. It was a world in which people failed each other, and Blaine should know. He had been failed and cheated and let down more than anyone else. He deserved a little security in his life. He deserved to have Kurt at his back.

So, if romance and rose petals were what Kurt wanted—if being courted and chased and seduced was what was necessary to get Kurt back—then Blaine would indulge him. And he'd start right now.

Blaine drove to the nearest florist and began to browse.

When it came time to fill out the cards, one in particular caught his eye: a sad puppy in a doghouse. It looked somewhat familiar. On impulse, Blaine grabbed it, scribbling a note and fastening it to a bouquet of roses. Satisfied with his selections, Blaine conferred with the store clerk, paid for his purchases, and gave the delivery man a generous tip.

_That should do it_, he concluded. _I'm on my way to a full reconciliation with everyone, from Burt, to Carole, to Kurt._

Now, he just had to wait for Sam to find him a song.

* * *

The first time the doorbell rang was at nine-thirty, not long after Carole and Sam had left for church. It was a bouquet for Burt, so Kurt put it in a vase beside his dozing parent. He figured that the flowers and card would be a pleasant sight to wake up to. However, it wasn't long before Burt's shouts brought Kurt running, heart pounding with anxiety.

"Get this thing out of my room!"

His father waved his hand at the flowers, which were sitting innocuously on the bedside table. A ripped-up card lay on Burt's lap.

"What's wrong, Dad? Are you OK? Are you allergic to them? I'm so sorry, I didn't think—"

"Did you read the card?"

"No, it was addressed to you."

"Well, it's not the flowers, it's who they're from. I don't want to be staring at _these_ every time I climb into bed." Burt sighed. "How about you toss them into the compost bin?"

Kurt nodded, retrieving the flowers. He reached a hand out for the card, offering to throw it away, too. Burt handed him the pieces.

"You're—gonna to be alright, Dad?"

"Sure. I'll be right as rain. I'll be down for breakfast soon. A nice, healthy one." The corner of Burt's mouth twitched. "It's good to have you home, Kurt. Now—get those things out of here. Go on."

Kurt carried the card and flowers to the compost bin and dropped them in. For some reason, however, he couldn't bring himself to walk away. Leaning over, he picked out the pieces of the card and patched them back together.

He soon wished he hadn't, because the message was from Blaine:

_Burt—You've been a father to me. I look forward to many more years as part of your family._

The next time the doorbell rang, it was 10:30. This time, the delivery was for Carole, and the whole thing—bouquet, card, and all—went straight to the compost bin. At 11:30, a box of chocolates arrived for Kurt. This time, Kurt hesitated. Chocolates couldn't go into the compost. Besides, they were high-quality. Kurt hid them in the back of a cabinet. Mike had commented that his constant dancing burned a lot of calories. The chocolates would go to him. They wouldn't have to stay at the house for long.

Kurt thought he was bearing up well, considering the onslaught he was facing. Then, at 12:30, the delivery man returned again, this time with two dozen yellow roses. Fastened to the box was yet another card—a sad puppy sulking in a doghouse. Strangely familiar—it looked like the card Blaine had sent after their breakup. Unable to stop himself, Kurt opened it and read the message:

_Feeling blue? Come out to play. I know how to scratch _all _your itches. ;-)_

Burt never knew what was in the card that made his son so upset. All he could do was watch from the window as his baby boy ripped those roses to pieces and tossed the petals on top of the decaying leaves and vegetable peels in the back yard. When Kurt came back in, his hands were bleeding.

Since he didn't know how to fix the hurt his son was feeling on the inside, he offered to get some peroxide and Band-Aids. Kurt looked at the scratches on his palms with surprise.

"No," he answered after a beat, looking into his father's eyes. "Thank you, Dad. I'll be fine. I just . . . didn't notice that those roses had thorns—not until it was too late. I guess they always do. I—should have looked closer—before I touched them."

Burt shook his head. "You're wrong, you know. Every good florist knows to remove the sharp parts before sending out a bouquet."

Kurt looked up in surprise.

"What?" Burt answered. "Didn't think a guy like me could know something about flowers? I learned a thing or two from your mom and Carole. And one thing I know is that there _is_ a such thing as a rose without thorns. It just . . . sometimes . . . takes a while to find one."

Kurt laughed hollowly as he held his hands away from his body. He didn't want the blood to stain his clothes.

"Here, son." Burt grasped Kurt's shoulder and guided him to a seat at the kitchen table. "I'm taking care of your hands—and don't you say _you're_ here to take care of _me_. I'm your father. It's my job to protect you. And since I'm in no shape to rip Blaine's head off, I can at least try to stop you from bleeding."

* * *

"Yeah, it's like totally awesome here. Cambridge is so old that none of the streets go in straight lines. They all turn and twist and go off in different directions, which means I never get lost. And there's ice-cream in all kinds of flavors—lavender, rose-hip, and even _rainbow._ I always wanted to taste a rainbow, and now I have. It's so much better than in Ohio, Sam. You should move with me."

Sam made an agreeable sound into the phone. He and Carole had gotten out of church much earlier than Joe and the rest of the God Squad usually did, so he'd had time to sit in the park and ring up Brittany. He really missed her, even if she sometimes confused him.

"Wait a minute—" Sam's mind caught up with his ears. "—did you just say you don't get lost because none of the roads are _straight_?"

"Yeah. Because straight lines make no sense. They're, like, unnatural, imaginary things that only exist in Geometry class. So, if you see something that looks, like, completely straight, you know it's a lie, and that always confused me. But if something has curves, then that means it's real."

"Oh." Sam wrinkled his forehead. Sometimes he understood exactly what Brittany meant, and sometimes he got the feeling that she was seeing and smelling and tasting things that he would never quite be able to comprehend. He often wished he could, because Brittany's world seemed infinitely more beautiful than his own.

"What do rainbows taste like?" he asked.

"Even better than unicorns."

"That's good, right?"

"What do you think? Anyway, so the people at MIT, they say I'm, like, smarter than Einstein, and they're totally confused about how that could be, but _he_ didn't even start talking until he was like, five years old, so I'm obviously way ahead of him."

"Obviously. You really are smart. Santana always said so. And I—I thought so too"

"And that is why I love you two."

"I love you, too." Sam felt his heart constrict. "I'm sorry I made those cracks about your SATs, Britt. I was jealous, and scared of losing you, too, and I shouldn't have—"

Sam couldn't finish his sentence, because from what he gathered, what he was afraid of was coming true. The MIT professors wanted Brittany to get her GED and move right to Cambridge so they could spend the summer hooking her brain up to all kinds of machines before classes started in the fall. She was worried about leaving the New Directions behind, and had insisted on coming back for Regionals, but he was sure that after that, she'd be gone and Sam would be heartbroken again.

But he hadn't called because of his own heartbreak. He'd called because he wanted Britt's advice, and since it was almost time to meet the God Squad, he had to ask fast. He took a deep breath, and changed the subject from his own idiotic behavior.

"Anyway, Britt, I called not just to find out how you were, but because I need your opinion. What do you think of Blaine and Kurt? Together, I mean?"

"Wait—Blaine and Kurt are together again?" Brittany's tone of voice changed.

"Uh . . . no, but Blaine wants to propose, and he wants me to help him, so . . ." Sam let his voice trail off. There was a long silence on the other end, and Sam glanced at the phone to see if the call had been lost. It hadn't. "Britt?"

"Ummmmm. Yeah. So, Sam, sometimes in the winter me and Lord Tubbington look out the window, and we see snowflakes falling. And Lord Tubbington tells me that snowflakes are magical, because every single one is unique. But that's, like, impossible, because _chemistry,_ you know. But he doesn't believe me. He never does listen to me. Is he still smoking, by the way?"

"I don't think so. I think he quit. I'll ask your dad, if you like."

"Dad won't know. He never notices anything bad, even if it's happening right in front of his eyes." Brittany's voice darkened for a moment, but after a beat she continued in her normal way:

"Anyway, I was saying—snowflakes _aren't_ unique, but let's, like, pretend they are. So, Lord Tubbington and me will sit and watch them fall, and I'll think that they are all so beautiful and perfect. But then, sometimes, it starts to snow ice crystals, too. And sometimes, one of those beautiful snowflakes lands on one of those bits of ice, and kind of sticks onto it. You know what I'm saying?"

"Um, I think so. You're saying that . . . Kurt is a snowflake, and Blaine is a ball of ice?"

Brittany didn't say yes or no, but Sam knew he'd guessed right.

"Lord Tubbington always cries when that happens," Brittany whispered. "Because every time, the ice gets a little bit bigger while the snowflake just melts away."

"Oh." Sam blinked. "That's . . . really sad. I never thought of snow that way."

He'd never thought of Blaine that way, either.

"It's good you asked me, then," Brittany answered. "'Cause Lord Tubbington says you're a snowflake, too. And I think you're just too beautiful to disappear."

In the distance, Sam could see Joe settling down under a tree and kicking off his shoes.

"I'm not going anywhere, Brittany. Except to meet with the God Squad."

"Promise?"

"I promise. But I gotta go now—Joe's waiting for me. I'll see you soon, Britt."

After they'd said their goodbyes, Sam slung his messenger bag of sheet music over his shoulder. It felt heavier than it had before, but he had a promise to keep. Now, the God Squad was going to help him figure out how he could do it—and still be at peace with himself.

* * *

******DISCLAIMER: **___Glee_, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.

******AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This story is inspired by the crack klaine proposals meme and the title of the final episode of the season. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

******OH, AND: **This is my second foray into the ___Glee_ fandom. I hope you enjoy it.


	5. Wounds

_I only did the kind of things I orta, sorta.  
To you I was as faithful as c'n be—fer me.  
Them stories 'bout the way I lost my bloomers—  
Rumors! A lot of tempest in a pot o' tea!_

"Joe."

"Sam," the other boy answered as he clasped his friend's hand. Sam couldn't help noticing the scratches and calluses that marked Joe's skin.

"Good to have you back. Been working hard?"

Joe nodded and signaled for Sam to sit beside him. As usual, Joe had brought his guitar with him, but Sam was surprised that he'd also spread a blanket on the ground. Joe's toes were curled in the spring grass.

"It's good to be back," he sighed.

"Figgins is gonna freak."

"No, he won't. Won't look good if he suspends me 'cause I was building houses for Habitat for Humanity."

"I guess. It's not like you slapped Finn or anything."

"Huh?" Joe blinked. "Yeah. Well. My biggest problems will be catching up in class, learning Regionals choreography, and fixing up Mark, John, and Esther."

Sam stared at his classmate for a couple seconds, then asked who the hell Mark, John, and Esther were. Threesomes didn't seem like they should be in Joe Hart's vocabulary, despite that song they'd sung together . . .

"You know, _Mark_, _John_, and _Esther_," Joe said, pulling forward three of his dreads. "I can't get the sawdust out of them."

"Oh."

It was strange having Joe heading up the God Squad. Sam had gotten used to how Quinn and Mercedes ran it—with iron fists. Now, whenever he attended, he found himself wedged between the wacko Kitty Wilde and a bible-junkie with a thing for quoting his own chest. Sometimes, Sam wondered how Joe got so good at reading upside down.

"Is this everyone?" Sam asked, doubting the wisdom of summoning the new God Squad. "Where's Mercedes?"

"Called her this morning—though really, _you_ could've done that."

Sam winced in acknowledgement. He'd never quite understood how he and Mercedes had gone wrong. Things had just petered off after she moved away. Anyway, it was . . . awkward . . . calling her up. Asking her for help. Revealing just how messed up his life had become since she'd graduated. He really didn't want Mercedes to see that. Still, she _was_ good with advice. When they'd been together, she'd helped him keep his feet on the ground and told him off when he needed it. He missed that about her.

"So . . . is she coming?" Sam persisted.

"Dude, you texted me at one in the morning. Only God can work miracles." Joe fiddled with his guitar, which seemed to have acquired a new, pasted-on quotation since Sam had last seen it. "A year ago, I didn't even have a _cell._ Lucky Finn started scheduling all those late-night choir practices, or I wouldn't have one now."

Sam sighed and slipped his bag off his shoulders. Noticing that his shoe-lace had come loose, he bent forward to retie it. Next, he checked his phone for messages. Finally, he shifted his bag around several times, opened it, fiddled with the papers inside, and closed it again. Anything to keep from looking Joe in the eye.

Joe saw too much, even if he said very little.

"Mercedes is busy," the other boy broke in. "She's taking Mike to meet her grandparents today."

Sam's hands froze. Before he could stop himself, he wondered if the senior Joneses would greet Mike Chang as warmly as they'd greeted him. But _that_ was over now, and Sam was with Brittany. He loved her, and he shouldn't care that Mercedes had moved on, too. But he did—he cared that she'd moved on to Los Angeles, and that she'd moved on to Mike. Just like he cared that Brittany was moving on, too.

Somehow, Sam was always getting left behind.

Come to think of it, he hadn't even seen Lady Tubbington since the night before . . . He shook his head. The she-devil was probably lurking under his bed, waiting to ambush his ankles as soon as he got home. Good thing Blaine hadn't convinced him to give up on socks altogether. He needed the extra layer of protection.

When Sam sighed again, Joe tilted his head and looked at him with that strange, sideways stare. Before Joe could make another uncomfortable observation, Sam interrupted:

"Who's coming, then, Joe? 'Cause I may need an army to get me through this."

"Well, there's me, and of course there's Mark, John, and Esther. If you ask nicely, I'm sure Judith would be glad to help out."

Sam frowned. He didn't even think that there _were_ books of Esther or Judith in the Bible. He'd certainly never heard of any girl-books before.

"And then, of course," Joe continued, "there's—"

"Well, if it isn't our own greasy little guppy," a voice interrupted. Sam looked up to find a blonde silhouette leaning over them.

"—Kitty," Joe finished. She was hardly recognizable in her Sunday clothes, grasping a cardboard tray of take-out coffee.

"Move over, fish-lips. I didn't bring that blanket just so_ I_ could sit on the grass. And I hope you like your coffee black, because that's what you're getting."

"What are you doing here?" Sam sputtered, half-rising. Although he knew she was part of the Squad, he hadn't imagined Kitty would make an appearance. Not for him.

"Sitting in the cold and saving your sorry ass from some sorry-ass ethical dilemma, I gather."

"That's now how I put it, Kitty," Joe murmured as Kitty shoved a cardboard cup into Sam's hand.

"Yeah, well, I don't sugar-coat things. What's your problem-of-the-day? Because, seriously, you've got too many to tackle in just one go-round."

"That's not nice," Joe said.

"_I'm_ not nice," Kitty smiled. "But I'm Christian, and today I'm martyring myself for you. So be grateful, sit down, and start talking."

Sam sank onto the ground, but it was several minutes before he could bring himself to broach the subject of Blaine. When he did, he told Kitty that he wanted to ask Joe a few questions first—since he'd been in the New Directions longer. Kitty nodded, but studied both boys through narrowed eyes.

"What do you think of Kurt and Blaine together, in one word?"

"Upsetting." Joe grimaced, then added: "Distasteful."

"That's two words, genius," Kitty interjected.

"Aw, Joe, you're not going homophobic on me, are you? I thought you were better than that!" Sam snapped, bristling at his classmate's unexpectedly negative reaction.

"That's not fair, dude. You asked what I thought." Joe pushed 'John' and 'Esther' behind his ear. "Look, I decided way back when we were doing those singing Valentines that love is love. I thought hard about that, and I decided to go against what my parents and my church teach me. I haven't changed my mind, but . . ."

He trailed off and stared into the distance. Sam never got used to this Joe-Hart quirk: It looked like the other boy had pulled shutters over his eyes while he ran complex computations in his head, reviewing years of teachings and months of actual life experience as he tried to force an invisible puzzle to fit together.

"But?" Kitty prompted. Sam glared at her.

"But . . . " Joe continued, eyes refocusing. "I said 'love is love.' And I _know_ I didn't spend much time with Kurt before he graduated, but . . . well, with him and Blaine, where's the love?"

Kitty snickered, then rolled her eyes as Joe began to unbutton his shirt.

"Here, listen," Joe offered. "'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"

"1 Corinthians 13," Kitty finished. "He's been repeating that passage since we were ten. I'm sure he's got it memorized by now—there was no need for him to take his shirt off. Not that we minded, right, Sam?"

"Right . . ." Sam muttered.

Joe fastened his shirt back up and shrugged. "Let's just say I have a flair for the dramatic," he replied. Kitty snorted.

Sam frowned. "Is _that_ your answer? 'Where's the love?' and a bible verse?"

"This _is_ the God Squad, Sam."

"I know you're not much into trifling matters like English, critical thinking, and hair-washing, fish-face," Kitty added. "But maybe you should at least _try_ to draw your own conclusions here. We can't do all the work for you, you know."

With those words, Kitty crossed her arms and leaned against the tree-trunk. Silence stretched between the three Squad members as Sam sipped his coffee and considered what Joe had said.

_Love is patient_. Blaine was trying to strong-arm Kurt into a relationship before Kurt was ready. _It does not envy . . . it is not self-seeking_. Certainly, Blaine's desire to marry his ex-boyfriend had increased when he had found out about Adam. Wasn't that envy? _It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs_. Strike and strike. _It does not boast_. Sam could clearly remember Blaine commenting that no one would ever love Kurt as much as he did. Wasn't that boasting? _Yes_, Sam thought, _and it was a lie, too_. Sam loved Kurt, so did Kurt's family—and so did that British guy with the handkerchief. Sam's heart started to pound.

_Love always protects . . ._

_ Always trusts . . ._

_Always hopes . . ._

_ Always perseveres . . ._

_ Love never fails. _

If that was what love was, then what _was_ Blaine feeling? What was he _doing_? Why _did_ he cheat so quickly after Kurt moved? Why had he led Tina on? Why was he chasing after his best friend while still proclaiming his love for his ex? Why was Blaine always _bragging_ about how much he loved Kurt, but never _showing_ it through kindness or fidelity? Why did he shame Kurt in the choir room and make him . . . be less?

For that matter, why didn't he trust Kurt to make the right choice for himself?

"Fuck!"

Sam felt two pairs of icy-blue eyes turn on him.

"Fuck!" he repeated, crumpling the empty cup in his hand. "Guys, I'm, like . . . _totally_ _fucked._"

"That's obvious just from looking at you, grease-monkey." Kitty rolled her eyes. "So . . . why don't you stop wasting our time and start telling us what your _actual_ problem is? Because somehow I doubt you called the God Squad in just to ask our opinion of 'The Tragic Love-Affair of the Lima-Latte-Loser and Brilliantine-in-a-Bowtie.'"

* * *

Kurt tried not to straighten his hands out too much; the scratches from the rose-thorns, though not deep, did hurt, and if he wasn't careful, he'd re-open them. Really, he should have been more careful. He should have known better.

Actually, he should have known better about a lot of things. He should have known better about Blaine. He should have known from the beginning, when he'd always felt like second best. When he had felt like he had to tamp himself down, hold himself back, and let Blaine have the spotlight. When he had to put out or risk losing the only man who would ever love him—to _Sebastian Fucking Smythe_.

Poor Kurt. Poor, high-pitched, pale, soft, gay-faced, flamboyant, _girly_ Kurt Hummel with his baby-penguin body and his gas-pain faces.

_Poor_ _Lady Hummel_.

God, how he hated that nickname—most of the time. Sometimes, he appreciated the irony that the people who were mocking him had raised him to the aristocracy. _Lady Hummel of Hummel Hall_. In that guise, Kurt was several steps above Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was certainly above the Smythes and the Andersons of Lima, Ohio.

Kurt looked at his father, who was snoring on the couch, and chuckled. Actually, Kurt Hummel, son of Congressman Hummel, now held the highest social position of the three. If Kurt actually _cared_, he might get some pleasure out of that little reversal. The 'faggy' son of a mechanic had risen to become part of the political elite. Now that his father was better, Kurt could look forward to visiting Washington, D.C. during his breaks. Cheap Chinatown buses made the trip manageable. It would certainly be easier than these frequent visits to Lima had been.

_And_ _sometimes_, Kurt thought, _it's best not to come back._

Kurt headed towards his room. As long as Burt was napping, Kurt could have some alone-time. He could even try to get in touch with Adam. Things with Blaine—and with everyone other than Mercedes and Mike, he suspected—would have been easier if Adam had been able to come to Lima with him. But Adam was busy building his resume and polishing his senior showcase. That meant that he'd had to dedicate their spring break to rehearsals.

Kurt could hardly wait to see what the sweet Adam Crawford was doing with the role of Iachimo in _Cymbeline_. Before Kurt had departed, they'd spent hours running lines together. As far as Kurt could tell, Adam was going to be brilliant.

Watching the goofy young man from Essex transform into a Standard-American-speaking villain had even made Kurt question his choice to study musical theatre instead of classical acting. Kurt remembered how he'd leaned further and further over the kitchen table while Adam delivered Iachimo's most disturbing speech: the one when he examines the sleeping Imogen, memorizing the moles on her naked body in order to convince her husband she'd been unfaithful. Then, in the middle of a line, Adam had stopped, held out a plate of scones, and asked whether Kurt was hungry—since he certainly seemed to be drooling.

"I-I had no idea that you could be so wicked," Kurt had said.

Adam had merely winked as he poured them fresh cups of tea.

Now, Kurt's beau was in the midst of ten-out-of-twelves and technical rehearsals. It was difficult for them to connect, but between emails and text messages, they were managing to keep each other up-to-date. Kurt had even gotten Adam on the phone long enough to tell him about Burt's prognosis, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to mention Blaine's strange behavior.

Some things were just too messed up to share. The farther away Kurt got from his relationship with Blaine, the clearer it became that it had been unbalanced. Admitting that, even to—no, _especially_ to—someone he was falling for made his stomach squirm. Adam was older, more experienced. What would he think when he learned that Kurt's one and only prior relationship, the one that he'd had such trouble getting over, had been so very one-sided?

Maybe Adam would think less of him. Maybe he'd think him weak, like everyone else seemed to. Maybe the illusion that Adam was falling in love with him (because it had to be an illusion, right? No one fell in love with Kurt Hummel for _Kurt Hummel_) would shatter into so many tiny shards.

"Ouch!"

Pain brought Kurt back to the present. He was in his room, seated at his desk, with his laptop open to that photograph of him and Adam in Central Park. He'd been wringing his hands again.

One more bad habit to break.

Kurt was in the middle of his letter to Adam when the first instant message arrived:

**VampyreDiva**: "How could you DO this to him?"

_Tina_.

Before he had a chance to respond, a second message popped up:

**BroadwayBnd21**: "Kurt, thank G-d you've signed on. I need advice for my audition song and Dad and Daddy are *no help at all.*"

**BroadwayBnd21**: "Btw, you have *got* to see _Nice Work if You Can Get It_. If you have time outside rehearsals, I mean. I know how hard you are working just to get caught up . . ."

**VampyreDiva**: "I would have killed for yellow roses."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "But then, NYADA is *not* the sort of school that most people can sail through."

Kurt wanted to scream. Instead, he took a deep breath and started typing.

**PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva**: "You can have them, then."

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "This isn't the best time, Rachel."

**VampyreDiva**: "You ruined them! You have no IDEA how upset Blaine is, Kurt."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "What? Kurt! You promised we were in this together!"

**VampyreDiva**: "He trusted you!

**BroadwayBnd21**: "I trusted you!"

The messages came so fast that Kurt hardly had time to think. He was in the middle of telling Rachel that this was _not_ the moment to guilt-trip him about audition songs when he felt a chill go up his spine.

_How did Tina know about the roses_?_ How did she know that he'd destroyed them_?

Was Tina . . . watching him? Or was it—

No. It couldn't be Blaine. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't spy on Kurt's house.

Would he?

**PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva**: "How do you know about the roses? Have you been watching me?"

**BroadwayBnd21**: "Kurt . . . are you ignoring me?"

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "No, but I told you this isn't the best time, Rachel."

Kurt's eyes flicked to the other chat window. Tina was typing. Back to Rachel.

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "Things are bad here. Blaine's acting crazy, and that's putting it mildly. Plus, he seems to have gotten the idea that I'm floundering at NYADA. _Why_ would he think that, Rachel? Are you sending him _progress reports_?"

**VampyreDiva**: "You weren't exactly subtle. Why can't you accept an apology? Blaine's a mess right now."

**PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva**: "So you _were_ watching me!"

**VampyreDiva**: "No, of course not. He told me what you did. He's my friend."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "Of course I've talked to Blaine about you. He's my friend, too, you know."

Suddenly and (he told himself) irrationally angry, Kurt pushed his chair back from the desk, jumped up, and started to pace. Weren't Tina and Rachel his friends first? Words of wisdom rose up in Kurt's memory: _This is why you shouldn't go backwards. This is why you can't stay friends with an ex_. _What's done is done, and if a relationship ends, it was probably for a good reason_.

He should have taken Brody's advice.

Kurt blinked. He'd never even liked Brody, but his unwelcome roomie had been right about one thing. Whenever Kurt gave a little—whether it was agreeing to be friends or easing his sexual frustration the "safest" way possible at Mr. Schue's wedding—he'd dug himself in deeper. Every time he tried to salvage some scrap of what he'd had with Blaine, his ex became more possessive and insistent. And Tina and Rachel were feeding the monster. He had to put an end to that _now_.

Rachel, he figured, would be easier to crack.

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "Look, this is important. I can't stop you from talking to Blaine, but I need you to stop talking to him about _me_. There's a reason I unfriended him. The more he knows about what I'm doing in New York, the stranger he acts. I need you to help me here. I need you to keep my private life _private_. Don't interfere."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "Like you did with that nude scene? Kurt, do you have any idea how many awards that film is up for now? It's going to *festivals.* That should have been my role, but you convinced me I'd be selling out if I did that scene."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "Which, by the way, they *cut.*"

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "I'm sorry. But as much as losing that role sucks, it sucks worse that I'm being stalked in my own home."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "WHAT?!"

Then, suddenly, Tina was back:

**VampyreDiva**: "Blaine's worried about you, OK? He's looking out for you. You have to admit you've been acting strange lately. How could you throw everything away like this?"

Kurt frowned. Something sounded a bit off about Tina. It was almost like another voice was speaking through her. Or using her computer.

**PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva**: "Is Blaine there with you? Right now? Standing over your shoulder?"

After a long pause, Tina answered in the negative. He was at her house, but so upset that he was lying down in her room.

**VampyreDiva**: "You're breaking his heart. You should see him. Just come by, see him, _talk_ to him."

**PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva**: "No."

**VampyreDiva**: "Kurt, don't be so unreasonable."

This time, Kurt let out a little scream of disgust.

**PorcelainStar to VampyreDiva**: "You sound exactly like Blaine. Did you know that? Maybe you _are_ a perfect pair."

**VampyreDiva**: "He's giving you another chance. Just come over."

**PorcelainStar**: "No. N. O. A simple word, Tina. Why don't you and Blaine look it up in the dictionary? Goodbye."

Kurt closed the chat window and blocked "VampyreDiva." Then, he turned back to his email to Adam. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the mood to write anymore. All the happy memories of their time together had been wiped away, and it seemed like forever before he'd be back in the city to make new ones.

The computer beeped again.

**BroadwayBnd21**: "I'm sorry, Kurt, I didn't know Blaine was doing that."

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "He is. He's using everything you say and turning it around to make me look bad."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "OK, I won't say any more about you, even if he asks. I don't want to lose my best gay. Deal?"

Kurt cringed at the nickname, but decided that he was willing to lose the battle as long as he won the war.

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "Deal. Gotta go now. I have to finish my email to Adam. I'm sorry I can't help with the audition right now."

**BroadwayBnd21**: "It's no big. My dads just promised to take me to Colony. I'm going to dig through every song in their collection. I can look for one for your audition, too, if you like."

**PorcelainStar to BroadwayBnd21**: "Thanks, Rachel. That's generous of you."

Within moments, Rachel had signed off, no doubt high on the prospect of hours of exploring acres of sheet music (and posters, and records, and so forth). Kurt wished that he could be there. Anywhere. Away from here. But he needed to be with his family, and Lima was still home.

Kurt leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He reminded himself of his revelation the other day—that Blaine clung to him and pushed him down because he _knew_ that Kurt had more talent. There was no guarantee that Blaine would actually follow him to New York. There was no way that Kurt could be forced into marriage like some piece of chattel. He was—more or less—safe.

He just had to get through three . . . more . . . days.

_Three_. By Thursday he'd be back in New York trying to pick the perfect outfit for the opening of _Cymbeline_. He'd be cheering for his _real_ boyfriend—the one who saw the star inside Kurt without trying to extinguish it.

It wasn't that long. So why did it feel like forever?

The morning of flowers and chocolate followed by the afternoon of instant messages had taken their toll. No longer able to focus on his email to Adam, Kurt wrapped it up as efficiently as he could and signed it with love.

For a moment, he hovered the cursor over "send." Then, he added a postscript:

_When you go home, do you ever feel like you need to change everything about you—to turn back into the person you were before—just to fit in, just so that you won't upset everyone else_?

Before he could reconsider, Kurt hit send. Tired beyond words, he dimmed the lights, climbed into bed, and pulled the cover over his head. Before long, Kurt felt the corner of his mattress sink as something heavy jumped onto the bed. A moment later, a wet nose nuzzled under his blanket. Before long, an enormous cat had burrowed in beside him and started purring blissfully.

"Why hello, my lady," Kurt murmured, cautiously scratching the oversized tabby behind the ear. "It's an honor to meet you at last."

When Kurt's new companion—who had curled up next to his stomach—nicked him with her blissful kneeding, Kurt _did_ wince. He did not, however, evict Sam's "she-devil" from his bed. Now he knew that his dream of the night before had been reality. Sam might not like it, but the cat had made her choice.

From now on, it would be Lady Hummel and Lady Tubbington against the world.

* * *

******DISCLAIMER: **___Glee_, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.

******AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This story is inspired by the crack klaine proposals meme and the title of the final episode of the season. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

******OH, AND: **This is my second foray into the ___Glee_ fandom. I hope you enjoy it.


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